“Will you have a cigar?” he asked, removing two from his waistcoat-pocket.
“I do not smoke.”
“Nor I,” said he, “but I carry them for the sake of appearances.”
“How is business?”
“Grand,” said he. “I have six men at work for me, and have started a little factory at home. My sister makes Sal, and the agents buy it from us, and so we have no bother. We ship it in crates, like a lot of eggs, and each ball is neatly wrapped and all ready for the customer. I am also beginning the manufacture of soap.”
I expressed my delight over his good-fortune.
“How are you getting along?” he asked.
I told him the story of my failure.
“There's the trouble,” said Mr. McCarthy. “A green hand is apt to slip down making the goods.
“'There's many a fall